Archive for September, 2011

Sitting Bull, the Great Chief of the Sioux, His Peculiar Character.
[Special Correspondence]

ST PAUL, Sept. 18 — Probably when the facts are all known it will be discovered that Sitting Bull had more to do in influencing the Indians against signing the treaty at Standing Rock than any other man. Bull is an Indian of large brain, as the writer ascertained while traveling with him for three months in the east. He is diplomatic in his nature, not a great warrior, but rather a safe counselor, and as such he has great influence with the Indians. He is a thoughtful savage, and his travels in New York, Philadelphia and Brooklyn, in 1884, taught him the ways of the whites to such an extent that he is now well able to cope with them. He is especially good in making a bargain. Indeed, the writer considers him intellectually one of the most powerful Indians on the American continent. That he has had much to do in shaping the opinions of the tribe there can be no doubt.

Sitting Bull’s Indian name is Ta-ton Ka-i-o-ton Ka, and he was born on the banks of Grand river within the boundaries of the great Sioux reservation and about forty five miles southwest from the present Standing Rock agency in Dakota. He is 55 years of age, has a very large head, is cool and thoughtful, very decided in his ways, and yet will listen to argument and will answer with argument. His original name was Wa-Kan-you na gin, or Standing Holy, which name he retained until he was 14 years old, when his father, whose name was Sitting Bull, took him along with him on the warpath into the Crow country (the inveterate enemies of the Sioux), and he, the 14-year-old boy, counted his first victory by killing a Crow Indian. After returning to their home his father “threw away” three ponies, i.e. killed them in honor of his brave son’s achievement, at the same time announcing that he had changed the name of his son from Standing Holy to that of Sitting Bull, bestowing his own name upon him.

In person, Sitting Bull is a solidly built Indian, not quite so tall as an ordinary savage, yet heavier in many respects. His features are strong, and when he walks he turns his toes inward, strikes the ground with a heavy, jarring tread, and moves rapidly like a man of business. His general look is heavy, while that of Little Crow, the leader of the great Indian outbreak in Minnesota in 1861, and Hole-in-the-Day, the great Chippewa chief, were more refined, but none the less true Indians. The Dakotas believe that they must imitate Hay-o-Kah, or the undemonstrative god, who inculcates the idea that it is not dignified, or manly, or great to evince lively emotions of grief or joy, but under all circumstances, even of torture and death itself, the Indian must show a stoical, impassive face, and hence the immovable features of Sitting Bull, or any other Indian who lays claim to power among his tribe. The principal characteristic of this great medicine man — for he is known among his tribe as such — is his stubbornness of character, the same element which made Grant the greatest warrior of modern times. With judicious management Bull could, no doubt, be won over to the whites, but you can’t drive him.

Roll on oh! cruel time; close up the year,
That marks the rounding of a century,
Since first our forefathers rejoic’d to hear,
The declaration, that all men are free.

We honor the names of the minute-men,
Who fought in the revolutionary strife,
And fell, at Lexington and Concord then,
To give the nation liberty and life.

But now the last battle-field comes in sight,
And casts its shadow o’er our peaceful land,
Like the death-angel who took his swift flight,
The clouds of war had been thickening fast,
And Sitting Bull with his wild Sioux bands,
Were gath’ring for war, for a fortnight past,
In the Maucaises terres or Bad Lands.
And the came the first bloody fray,
With the Sioux, who swept down like a sea,
How Custer’s and Reno’s command that day,
Had fought as they did at Thermopyke.

How Custer, surrounded on every side,
Like Leonidas still cheered his men,
Who fought ’till swept away by the fierce tide,
That roll’d over them again and again.

Three hundred strong they were before the fight,Three hundred they follow’d the new-made trail,Three hundred they fell to the left and to the right,
And not a man returned to tell the tale.

Close up the grave of the heroic dead,
Question not, till the resurrection morn’.
The last patriot’s blood was freely shed,
At the battle of Little Big Horn.

Strengthen the sacred ties of our nation.
Stand shoulder to shoulder in every fight,
Against the foes of civilization.
The enemies of true freedom and Right.

Decatur Republican (Decatur, Illinois) Jul 20, 1876

SITTING BULL has given his version of the Custer massacre. He states that the battle lasted only thirty minutes, and that Custer with a few men and officers had cut through the Indian line when he turned and charged back. The Indians were bewildered by this unlooked-for desperate charge, but closed in on the few men and killed them all. Custer, it is said, shot five Indians, and went down beating another with the butt of his revolver. This account corresponds with others coming from Indian sources.

THE celebrated prescription formulated by Gen. Dix, “If any man attempt to tear down the American flag, shoot him on spot,” was not attempted at the Red Cloud Agency a few days ago for certain reasons, whereof the particulars are interesting. Dr. Saville, the Government Agent at the Red Cloud Agency, with a sudden and unaccountable gush of patriotism, hoisted the American flag at his agency, — a custom, we are informed, prevailing since the agencies have been established in this country.

The sight of the star-spangled had the same effect upon the Sioux that the traditional scarlet rag has upon the bull, for at noon the braves rushed upon the agency buildings, tore down the American flag, and ornamented their handsome persons with portions of the bunting. Dr. Saville sent to Red Cloud to stop the outrage, but no answer was given, it being rumored that this pleasant gentleman was enjoying his Indian summer vacation.

There was every prospect of a severe fight before the respectable Agent, when he received unexpected aid from Camp Robinson. Between the honeyed words of Sitting Bull, a Sioux renegade, and the sabres of United States cavalry, the Agency buildings were rid of their visitors; but the man who hauled down the American flag lives to boast of his feat in Indian gibberish, in defiance of Gen. Dix.

I.
Come, all you doubting, pouting chaps, who go about as mourners
Come, wipe the tear drops from your eyes, stop crying on the corners
Come along, with shout and song, go it while you’re able,
Our Ben we’ll put in the White House, boys, you bet it, boys, we’re able.

II.
Yes, come, ye troubled hearted ones, stop croaking on the corners
With the red bandana wipe your eyes, til just the thing for mourners
And come along, with shout and song, go it while you’re able,
Our Ben we’ll put in the White House, boys, you bet it boys, we’re able.

III.
Now wring your red bandanas out, wipe off the tears of mourners
And shout for Ben and Levi, shout, don’t boo-hoo on the corners
And come along, with shout and song, go it while you’re able,
Our Ben we’ll put in the White House boys, you bet it, boys, we’re able.

IV.
Yet keep those red bandanas dry, for other weeping mourners,
November’s storm will surely bring great weeping on the corners
But come along, with shout and song, go it while you’re able,
Our Ben we’ll put in the White House, boys, you bet it, boys, we’re able.

[Most respectfully dedicated to the disgusted investors in the red bandana]
L.F.M.

Decatur Republican (Decatur, Illinois) Aug 16, 1888

Hebrews for Harrison.

At a recent Republican meeting in Waterloo, Iowa, Mr. Munger stated that he had seen a notice of the formation of a Hebrew Republican club in Cleveland, and to verify the truth of the report had written to the president of the club. The answer received was as follows:

“CLEVELAND, OHIO, August 16. — I.C. Munger, Esp., Waterloo, Iowa, — Dear Sir: You favor of the 14th at hand and contents noted. Yes, sir, the item as quoted in the Chicago Tribune of August 11, gives the facts in the case with one exception — instead of the club having fifty members, it is composed of eighty-five members, and every one of them heretofore voted solidly the Democratic ticket. The W.J. Hart Club was formed some three or four years ago and did valuable work for the Democratic party, but as the Democratic party is now controlled by one man, Grover Cleveland, an out-and-out free trader, and as the party itself has indorsed free trade, we, the Hebrews of the city, and particularly the W.J. Hart Club with its eighty-five members, have come out solidly for Harrison and Morton and protection. Trusting to hear soon from you as to your politics, I am, yours truly,
H. LEVY, No. 38 Race Street.

The reading of the letter called forth long-continued applause.

Decatur Republican (Decatur, Illinois) Aug 30, 1888

Have You Heard from Maine?

It went utterly,
For Governor Burleigh,
And Tippecanoe and Morton, too,
And Grover’s a used up man.

———
WHAT the Democrats are thankful for — that there are no more state elections before November.
———
THE Republicans only elected four congressmen in Maine. They might have done better if there had been more to vote for.

Decatur Republican (Decatur, Illinois) Sep 13, 1888

Marching to Victory.

The following song was sung by Prof Gilhland, of Fairmont, before the Danville Republican club, and a resolution was passed that it be published.

We shall sing the good old doctrine, boys, our fathers taught before,
Protection to the workingman, good wages for the poor,
We’ll drive the free trade sophistry back to England’s shore,
For we are marching to vict’ry

CHORUS
Hurrah, hurrah for Harrison, the true,
Hurrah, hurrah for Levi Morton, too,
We have Joe Joe Fifer on the track and intend to run him through,
For we are marching to vict’ry.

Cleveland is a two-faced man, as all do plainly see,
We are weary of his vetoes and his free trade heresy,
He can’t deceive us longer with his civil service plea,
For we are marching to vict’ry.

CHORUS
Hurrah, hurrah for Harrison, the true,
Hurrah, hurrah for Levi Morton, too
We’ve Gen. Pavey on the track and intend to run him through
For we are marching to vict’ry.

The President proposed a mess of Canada free fish,
But the catch was not as good as he most ardently did wish
And it happened that the Senators did not admire the dish
For they are marching to vict’ry.

CHORUS
Hurrah, hurrah for Harrison, the true
Hurrah, hurrah for Levi Morton, too
We have George Hunt upon the track and intend to run him through,
For we are marching to vict’ry.

The boys in blue were brave and true on many a well fought field,
They faced full many a danger while they were the Nation’s shield
They captured many a rebel flag which they’re not disposed to yield,
For we are marching to vict’ry.

CHORUS
Hurrah, hurrah for Harrison the true
Hurrah, hurray for Levi Morton, too
We have Joe Cannon on the track and intend to run him through,
For we are marching to vict’ry.

There is music in the air, my boys, I hear its joyful sound,
From east and west and north and south, to the Nation’s utmost bound
And we’ll bury Grover Cleveland deep beneath his free-trade mound,
For we are marching to vict’ry.

CHORUS
Hurrah, hurrah for Harrison the true
Hurrah, hurrah for Levi Morton, too
For every man we’ve on the track we’re bound to get first through,
For we are marching to vict’ry.

Decatur Republican (Decatur, Illinois) Sep 20, 1888

How Big is Grover!

How big is Grover Cleveland, pa,
That people call him great?
Is he as large as brainy Ben,
The favorite candidate?
Oh, yes, my son; he weighs a ton;
‘Tis mostly gall or fat,
He was a No. 19 collar
And a little Tom Thumb hat.

This little Red Star recording by The Kremlin Rhythm Rascals is the season’s top smash hit … You can’t resist this little number — You’ll shout … You’ll cheer, you’ll SWOON —- AND FALL RIGHT INTO LINE!

Riding up from Bangor,
On the “Eastern” train,
From a six weeks’ shooting
In the woods of Maine;
Quite of extensive whiskers,
Beard, mustache as well,
Sat a “student fellow.”
Tall, and fine, and swell.

Empty seat behind him,
No one at his side;
To a pleasant station
Now the train doth glide.
Enter aged couple,
Take the hinder seat;
Enter gentle maiden,
Beautiful PETITE.

Blushingly she falters,
“Is this seat engaged?”
(See the aged couple
Properly enraged,)
Student, quite ecstatic,
Sees her ticket “through,”
Thinks of the long tunnel —
Knows what he will do.

So they sit and chatter,
While the embers fly,
Till that “student fellow”
Gets one in his eye;
And the gentle maiden
Quickly turns about —
“May I, if you please, sir,
Try to get it out?”

Happy “student fellow”
Feels a gentle touch;
Hears a gentle whisper,
“Does it hurt you much?”
Fizz, ding, dong! a moment
In the tunnel quite,
And its glorious darkness,
Black as Egypt’s night.

Out into the daylight
Darts the “Eastern” train;
Student’s beaver ruffled
Just the merest grain;
Maiden’s hair is tumbled
And then and there appeared,
Cunning LITTLE EAR-RING
Caught in student’s beard.

Safe and snug in the sleeping car
Are father and mother and dreaming child.
The night outside shows never a star,
For the storm is thick and the wind is wild.
The frenzied train in its all-night race
Holds many a soul in its fragile walls,
While up in his cab, with a smoke-stained face,
Is the man in the greasy overalls.

Through the firebox door the heat glows white,
The steam is hissing at all the cocks;
The pistons dance and the drive-wheels smite
The trembling rails till the whole earth rocks.
But never a searching eye could trace —
Though the night is black and the speed appalls —
A line of fear in the smoke-stained face
Of the man in the greasy overalls.

No halting, wavering coward he,
As he lashes his engine around the curve,
But a peace-encompassed Grant or Lee,
With a heart of oak and an iron nerve.
And so I ask that you make a place
In the Temple of Heroes’ sacred halls
Where I may hang the smoke-stained face
Of the man in the greasy overalls.

The following we clip from one of our Exchanges, and is excellent in its way. We hope “one of the Lobby,” will try his hand on some of the other “mania’s.”

“The age of chivalry is past,”
Says Burke; the railroad age
Has dawned upon the world at last —
Railroads are all the rage.

The iron horse is soon to pant
Along Superior’s shore —
The rattle of the rushing car
To mingle with its roar;

The far off swamps and lakes, which feed
The father of the Floods,
Where but a stripping rivulet
He winds through pathless woods;

The sandy bluffs about La Crosse;
St. Croix — still farther on;
Oconto’s piny solitudes;
The “plains of Marathon;”

And myriad places more which now Are all unknown to fame,
Waupacca and Packwaukee, and
Full many a lengthy name —
Sweet sounding or cacophonous,
To us is all the same —
Are soon to hear his angry snort,
And see his breath of flame —
That is, if one road’s built for ten
Of the charters which men frame.

But old and young, and rich and poor
This mania controls,
From him who strives our souls to mend,
To him who mends our souls.

The men who mix in politics,
With one accord avow,
They find no motives pay as well
As loco motives now.

All native modesty has fled
Its loss we well may wail,
When poets own, without a blush,
They’ve ridden on the rail. *

Whilome, when one indulged in drink
Until it crazed his brain,
Men said that he was drunk, but now —
He’s only on a train.

How long a state of things like this
Is likely to endure,
Is hard to say — but there’s one thing
That’s tolerably sure;

Which is, if passing Railroad bills,
Or talking aught avails,
We soon shall travel — as you know
Folks did here; some few years ago —
Entirely on T rails.

Madison, Feb. 16.
_____
* See poems by J.G. SAXE, who openly declares that it’s “pleasant Riding on the rail.”

SINGING through the forests,
Rattling over ridges,
Shooting under arches,
Rumbling over bridges,
Whizzing through the mountains,
Buzzing o’er the vale,–
Bless me! this is pleasant,
Riding on the Rail!

Men of different “stations”
In the eye of Fame
Here are very quickly
Coming to the same.
High and lowly people,
Birds of every feather,
On a common level
Traveling together!

Gentleman in shorts,
Looming very tall;
Gentleman at large,
Talking very small;
Gentleman in tights,
With a loose-ish mien;
Gentleman in gray,
Looking rather green.

Gentleman quite old,
Asking for the news;
Gentleman in black,
In a fit of blues;
Gentleman in claret,
Sober as a vicar;
Gentleman in Tweed,
Dreadfully in liquor!

Stranger on the right,
Looking very sunny,
Obviously reading
Something rather funny.
Now the smiles are thicker,
Wonder what they mean?
Faith, he’s got the KNICKER-
BOCKER Magazine!

Stranger on the left,
Closing up his peepers;
Now he snores amain,
Like the Seven Sleepers;
At his feet a volume
Gives the explanation,
How the man grew stupid
From “Association”!

Ancient maiden lady
Anxiously remarks,
That there must be peril
‘Mong so many sparks!
Roguish-looking fellow,
Turning to the stranger,
Says it’s his opinion
She is out of danger!

Woman with her baby,
Sitting vis-a-vis;
Baby keeps a squalling;
Woman looks at me;
Asks about the distance,
Says it’s tiresome talking,
Noises of the cars
Are so very shocking!

Market-woman careful
Of the precious casket,
Knowing eggs are eggs,
Tightly holds her basket;
Feeling that a smash,
If it came, would surely
Sent her eggs to pot
Rather prematurely!

Singing through the forests,
Rattling over ridges,
Shooting under arches,
Rumbling over bridges,
Whizzing through the mountains,
Buzzing o’er the vale,–
Bless me! this is pleasant,
Riding on the Rail!

John Godfrey Saxe

A SAXE quote:

J.G. SAXE DISCUSSES EXECUTIVE BUDGET;
By JOHN GODFREY SAXE
New York Times October, 15, 1916

Taxes are made necessary by expenditures. No one can quarrel with legitimate expenses, nor with taxes to pay them. The demand for new methods of taxation, however, is not for taxation to pay for legitimate expenses, but to pay for waste, extravagance, and graft. Extravagance and graft will probably exist as long as Governments exist.

We strikers once for higher pay
With crowded ranks did cram Lynn;
We come with fuller ranks to-day
For Lincoln and for Hamlin.

The Southerners at us did sneer
And fiercely curse and ban Lynn,
But wilder yet will be their fear
Of Lincoln and of Hamlin.

Bold Robin Hood won Lincoln green,
And his sweet minstrel Gamelyn,
Were they alive they’d go, I ween,
For Lincoln and for Hamlin.

Like Sherwood’s king, we strike down wrong,
And while our town’s no sham Lynn,
We’ll wave our flag and go in strong
For Lincoln and Hamlin.

Lynn, May 18.

The Appleton Motor (Appleton, Wisconsin) Jul 19, 1860

The Bells!
NOT BY EDGAR A. POE.

Hear the Opposition Bells,
Empty bells!
How the turbulence of Babel their dissonance excels;
How they rattle, rattle, rattle,
Like a cow-bell with a cold;
Like the bells they hang on cattle,
Or a sword and buckler’s battle,
In the civil days of old.

Oh! the anger and the clangor
Of the bores!
From New Orleans to Bangor,
How it roars!
Hear their broad and brazen throats
Begging Abolition votes —
With a pledge to act the Hessian
In the war against Secession,
Whilst they shyly try to “ring in” Mr. Bell,
Bell! Bell! Bell!
Oh, the fusion and confusion of these Bells!

Appleton Motor (Appleton, Wisconsin) Oct 25, 1860

From the Boston Transcript.

“Is This a Dagger?”

Roger Pryor turned to Brutus!
‘Tis awful to think on!
He’s going to shoot us!
And poignard Abe Lincoln!
For, should Abe be elected,
And veto Secession,
Bold Roger will give him
No time for confession;
But murder old Abe —
How it makes the blood curdle!
And stick him where Brutus did,
Over the gurdle.
But who is this Roger,
That vapors and swaggers?
This vilonous Roger,
That talks about daggers?
Why, it’s Roger A. Pryor,
Whose clay has grown hotter,
Since the roasting it got
At the hands of the Potter.

Appleton Motor (Appleton, Wisconsin) Oct 25, 1860

About Roger A. Pryor — from Wikipedia:

In 1859, he was elected as a Democrat to the U.S. House of Representatives to fill the vacancy in Virginia’s 4th District caused by the death of William O. Goode. He served from December 7, 1859 to March 3, 1861. In the House, Pryor became a particular enemy of Representative Thaddeus Stevens, a Republican abolitionist.

During his term, he got into a verbal altercation with John F. Potter, a representative from Wisconsin, and challenged Potter to a duel. Potter, having the choice of weapons, chose bowie knives. Pryor backed out saying that bowie knives were not a civilized weapon. The incident found widespread publication in the Northern press which saw the refusal as a coup for the North — the humiliation of a Southern “fire eater”.

A VERY old maxim declares that it isn’t economy to pick up pins; the time is worth more than the pins. Similarly it is not true economy to do without Ivory Soap; your health requires the daily removal of the bodily excretions which are discharged through the pores of the skin. These tiny mouths must be kept open, and they should be opened only with a pure soap.